


A Still in Engineering

by Pennyplainknits



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-29
Updated: 2009-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-05 11:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pennyplainknits/pseuds/Pennyplainknits





	A Still in Engineering

Bones stumbles across the still, tucked away in the bowels of engineering, after one particularly vicious Romulan attack. He'd gone in search of Scotty, last seen with a gaping head wound, but stubbornly refusing to leave his precious engines.

He finds him, chalk-white and with blood congealing all down the side of his face, slumped against the wall and nursing a glass of hooch next to the bubbling still.

"Get your ass up," Bones orders. He checks the hypospray- the cut is bloody and deep and god knows how many germs are hanging around in the filthy engine bay. He'll be lucky if Scotty doesn't already have a raging infection.

"No' just yet," Scotty says, taking another sip. Bones can almost see the alcohol fumes.

"Did we lose them?" Scotty asks. He sounds light years away from his normal, irritatingly chirpy self.

Bones knows who he means. Two young ensigns, barely older than Chekov and still full of the wonder of space, got caught when the impulse engines took a glancing hit.

"I did my best," he says, cursing himself.

Scotty just passes the cup across, and Bones knocks it back.

"Didn't sign up for this," Scotty says after a while. "I just wanted her to fly as fast as she could."

"I know," Bones says, passing cup back to be refilled. "I know."

 

The still remains their secret, although Bones suspects most of engineering know about in some informal capacity. The replicators of course can make anything from potcheen to the smoothest Kentucky Bourbon, but there is always something missing, like the soul of the alcohol is gone. Scotty's rotgut packs a punch, and sometimes, after a particularly bad day, or when Jim has tried his patience just that bit too much, or Spock has been more than usually infuriating, he'll find his way down there. Sometimes he finds Scotty too, and after a while he's almost surprised to find they've developed a friendship based on bad alcohol, gossip ( he thought the nurses were bad, but Scotty knows EVERYTHING, including the real reason Jim got that rash) and a mutual dislike for the higher-ups in Starfleet.

In fact, the whole crew has that to some extent. Bones blames Jim.

 

They're shooting the breeze one day, Bones with his feet propped on one of the pipes, Scotty slouched against the wall, cup waving as he tells another semi-incomprehensible story. He'll never get used to that accent.

"And so I said to Admiral Archer, transdimensional warp is no' just a tale for bairns, its-Captain!" Scotty struggles to his feet and tries unsuccessfully to stand in front of the still.

"Jim," Bones says, at Jim's quirked eyebrows.

"I'm pretty sure moonshine's against regs, Bones." Jim points out.

Bones just takes another pull of his flask, unperturbed.

"But the replicator's just not the same," Scotty babbles. "It's like, impulse instead of warp, its-" before he can torture even more metaphors Bones tugs Jim down, and hands him the flask. Jim won't do anything, he knows, other than be pissed he didn't find the still sooner. And he looks a man in desperate need of a drink.

An hour and a half later, Jim is plastered to his side, putting off heat like the sun, and drooling gently into his shoulder. Normally Jim has a good head for drink (which is to say, he can throw a punch or pick someone up with a wink and a smirk no matter how much he's had) but he seems to have met his match.

"Is he OK?" Scotty asks, looking half amused and half concerned.

Bones tilts up Jim's head. He looks at him, blue eyes still clear, if a bit glazed over, then thunks his head back onto his shoulder. Bones feels the brush of wet lips against his neck, but it's probably Jim just being sloppy. He's a handsy drunk, and it seems this time is no exception.

"He's fine," Bones says, shifting as Jim works his arm round his waist "Just doesn't have the genetics to cope with your swill."

"Ah, very few do," Scotty says, nodding sagely and topping up his cup.

"Boooones," Jim slurs against his neck. "Y'accent is all," he moves his head from side to side "all, sunshiney Bones,"

Scotty has a sudden fit of the giggles, then studies his cup when Bones glares at him.

"You repeat one word of this," Bones says warningly "and I'm doing all your check ups the old-fashioned way."

Scotty mimes zipping his mouth.

"Lips are sealed," he says, laughter crinkling round his eyes.

"Heeeey," Jim turns his head to glare at Scotty, "'r' you laughin' at your captain?" He waves an unsteady finger at him.

"Never," Scotty says, and presses his lips together. Bones finds it hard to keep his own face straight. There's something about a _really_ drunk Jim that is both hilarious and touching, stripping away the ego and showing just how young he still sometimes is.

Jim pokes at his face, fingertips pressing over his cheekbones and eyebrows.

"Y'face is," Jim hiccups, and Bones thinks at this point its fifty-fifty if the guy can even focus fully.

"Is what?" he asks, gently batting Jim's hands away.

"S'nice," Jim prods his lips, laying his finger against Bones's bottom lip.

"I'm glad you think so," he drawls, though god knows if Jim wants to see 'nice' he only has to look in the mirror each morning.

"Plushy," Jim says, pulling his lip down like a bloodstock agent checking teeth. He leans close to Bones' ear, resting his head against his and whispers "Really, really, kis-" he breaks off mid-sentence and flops back onto Bones shoulder, face buried in the crook of his neck, mouth sloppy and open over his pulse point.

Bones waits for a few seconds to see if he'll finish that sentence. When nothing is forthcoming he sighs, and tugs Jim more tightly against him so he doesn't fall flat on his face.

"Amatuer," he says, feeling fond, and holds out the flask to Scotty for another refil.


End file.
